


That Night Vale Crystal

by Bouzingo



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: British!Carlos, Disabled Character, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Monster Hunter AU, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Victorian era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:50:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bouzingo/pseuds/Bouzingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil Palmer is a bored and disaffected outcast in a small but opulent desert community. He writes about monsters as though they were real and that's frowned upon in a society where even fairy tales are wiped of their magic. Then Carlos comes into town.</p><p>Based on a concept by oxtrezart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Meetings

Any given social is tedious, even when it’s being thrown by Josephine Bradley. Cecil Palmer greatly prefers salons or other, smaller gatherings, or nights at the theatre. But he sighs, takes a flute of champagne from a nearby server. He promised Mrs. Bradley that he’d at least look like he was having a good time.

It’s the 1890s and the desert town of Night Vale isn’t exactly the social centre of the world, but nobody has told Mrs Bradley. As far as she’s concerned, they’re only as far from Paris as Versailles. Her estate certainly has that palatial air, with the vaulted ceiling and the several chandeliers made of the famed Night Vale crystal, the translucent purple rock that has attracted the rich and the prospective nouveau riche. Cecil is of the former, and so of course, he has mild disdain for the latter.

“Mr. Palmer, you don’t have a head for that much champagne,” Josephine says.

“This is my first drink of the evening, Missus Josie,” Cecil says with his most innocent smile. “Remind me why you invited me, when all I ever do is drink your impeccably chosen alcohol?”

“Terrible boy,” she snaps, slapping Cecil’s forearm with her fan. “And what are you wearing? You look a disaster.”

Cecil frowns, looking down at his purple waistcoat (with the burgundy brocade and gold thread embroidery!) and paisley cravat. He doesn’t have mirrors, but he does have an indispensable tailor, who understands and caters to his taste.

“Mrs. Bradley, I have dressed suitably for your awful little affair,” he finally says.

“Well speaking of awful little affairs, Cecil, Mr. Harlan has returned from whatever adventures he was undertaking on some mountain range in the Far East,” Josephine says. Cecil, who was attempting to finish his champagne, nearly snorts it out his nose and looks up. “Ah- _hah_ , I thought there was something going on between you two.”

Cecil pre-emptively downs his drink.

“Is he going to be here?”

“No,” Josephine scoffs. “You know how I feel about explorers. And mountains. Now, I must go and meet some of my other guests. Don’t do anything too silly.”

And she leaves in a rustle of perfume and taffeta. Cecil sighs, and wanders aimlessly around the hall, the hand not clutching his cane wrapped around the stem of a newly replenished flute of champagne. People are dancing to the small band, and everyone looks perfectly lovely and vapid. They ignore Cecil, or try to at the very least. It’s a bit hard to ignore someone whose history is so very shameful.

If it weren’t for the fact that Josephine Bradley throws unforgettable fêtes, her eccentric view of what constitutes polite company would not be tolerated. Cecil knows this, and that’s why he makes a point to come to every single one of Josephine’s parties; they’re the only ones he gets invited to these days.

“Dr. Palmer?” someone asks in a quiet British accent. Cecil looks behind him, and falls in love instantly. 

The gentleman has dark skin and a good tailor. His chin speaks volumes about his strength of character, and his dark curly hair, though cruelly constrained in a queue, is _perfect_.

“Only a doctor of letters, I’m afraid,” Cecil finally says with a smile that’s probably too wide. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. You are…?”

“Carlos St. Mark,” he says, and smiles. Cecil’s heart starts palpitating oddly. “I don’t believe it stands for much on this side of the Atlantic, but I’m an earl, if we must stand on ceremony. I prefer Doctor anyway.”

“Cecil Palmer,” Cecil says, and extends a hand for Carlos to shake “And I have never stood on ceremony in my life. I feel like calling you Earl-Doctor St. Mark may be a stretch.”

His handshake is firm and full of conviction. Cecil has never been a part of such a resilient handshake, and is reluctant to let the moment pass, even after the requisite amount of time a handshake should last.

“I’ve read your papers, Mr. Palmer,” Carlos says, finally extricating his hand from Cecil’s grip. “Or at least some of them. What I have read is interesting, if utterly unscientific. I wasn’t sure whether I should have absorbed them as informative or as a diversion.”

“Well, I feel if my readers can learn a little while being entertained, then I have succeeded,” Cecil says. Carlos looks surprised.

“Then you truly believe all that you have written?” he asks. “Er… _angels_ which behave like cobbler’s elves? Some kind of cloud which rains dead animals on those unfortunate enough to be underneath? People who turn into trees, like something out of Ovid?”

“I would never put to paper something which I did not believe in my heart,” Cecil says, straightening as much as he can, though the leg is starting to pain him.

“I beg your pardon. I’ve offended you,” Carlos says. “I was advised that this is a subject you’ve been called on to discuss often, if unwillingly.”

“Indeed,” Cecil says. “In the lower classes, I wouldn’t have been tolerated as eccentric in such an unbearable matter.”

“No, but is the alternative preferable?” Carlos says. “I’ve visited Bedlam. It is a horror.”

“Asylums are not just for the lower-class, Doctor,” Cecil says with a taut smile, “though we may call them retreats.”

Whatever Carlos is going to say after that, and Cecil hopes he hasn’t scared away the dashing doctor, is interrupted by the arrival of another guest, announced as Mr. George Irving. The minute Cecil sees him, he feels a need to act the gracious host.

If acting the gracious host means taking out that eldritch shadow form before it starts to feed on Mrs. Bradley’s human guests.

How could ‘George Irving’ or whatever it likes to be called outside of its translucent disguise even muster the audacity to come here looking like _that_? Demons are hopeless at fashion sense, this is an irrefutable fact, but soft leather riding boots in 1891? Nearly unforgivable. Also, those eyes are entirely too green, even to a layman, and that wig looks taxidermed. Being in _polite company_ , Cecil doesn’t expect that anyone will comment on that hideous threadbare coif, or how very 4rth of Thermidor it is, but this isn’t a costume party, for Heaven’s sake!

“Excuse me,” he says, regretfully striding away from Carlos and reaching into his jacket’s pocket for the small book he carries with him always. He doesn’t look back at Carlos because he is reddening most spectacularly and is sure that his sexual deviance probably rolled off of him like waves.

He’ll be sure to be less Achillean around Carlos next time. If ever there is a next time.

George Irving seems confused about what one does at a social. He has cottoned on to the alcohol, though, and is drinking when Cecil finally reaches him.

“Mr. Irving!” he says. “Welcome to Night Vale! May I show you the gardens? Under the moon, the magnolias look resplendent.”

George Irving seems relieved at the prospect, but Cecil sees the underlying hunger. Cecil leads him to the terrace, hand touching his elbow in ways that are likely going to make people _talk_.

The gardens are lovely in the moonlight, though George Irving is in no mood to appreciate it. He lets out an unearthly howl that is too high for Cecil to really hear, but loud enough for him to feel in his bones, and he sheds his skin with a flourish. Underneath is something unforgettable but unseeable at the same time. Cecil averts his eyes, ducks into a lighter spot of the garden to read a passage from his book.

It’s a small tome in a language that Cecil does not understand, but it’s not what is written which has power. It is Cecil’s voice, which drops to a low and persuasive pitch as he begins to _intone_ what is written. The demon keens, and swipes its claws in Cecil’s general direction. Cecil dodges, but not fast enough; the demon has hit him squarely in the bad leg. With a cry he falls, his spell interrupted and white lights popping behind his eyes.

 _“Foolish, petulant child. Why would you think that I could be defeated by a single cripple when I have come this far? Who do you think you are?”_ it yells in a voice like scraping metal. Cecil tries to sit up, look for the book which was knocked from his hands. The pain is immense and he can’t feel his leg beneath the knee. _Stupid_ he thinks, tries not to acknowledge that this is how he dies.

And then someone else starts _intoning_ in oaky tones that sound new but familiar. He looks up, galvanized, and sees Carlos standing, reading from the book Cecil dropped. Soon, the demon starts smoking and melting simultaneously. A smell like burned sugar sears Cecil’s nose, and as he coughs from the pungent odour, the demon becomes totally incorporeal.

Cecil grimaces at the tar-like mess on the ground. His leg still hurts, but at least he can feel and move his toes now.

“What in the name of God was _that_?” Carlos asks, holding a handkerchief to his mouth. “And what did I just do?”

“Carlos! I mean Doctor St. Mark,” Cecil stutters. “Um. I would explain, except you say that you’ve read my writings. So I don’t think any such preamble is necessary.”

There is a long moment of silence which is filled by Carlos staring at Cecil, and then at what’s left of George Irving, and then back at Cecil. His mouth opens and closes a couple of times.

“I must apologize, sir,” he finally says a bit faintly, and holds out a hand to help Cecil up. “I have discredited you.”

“Not at all,” Cecil says, and takes Carlos’ hand. It is just as warm and strong as it was five minutes ago. Honestly very steady grip for someone who just performed their first exorcism. “You merely called my writings utterly unscientific, which they are. I have no desire for the dry discourse that one finds in journals of learning. We should depart the terrace, before people start getting notions.”

He adds this last part with a thinly veiled resentment. If Carlos notices, he doesn’t let it show.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “That… thing, it seemed to pain you badly.”

“They’re attracted to my injury,” Cecil frowns, grips his cane tightly. “Demons, whenever they can, try to latch on to weakness, physical or mental, to avoid being dispatched.”

“You dispatch them?” Carlos says, and smiles a bit. “What a relief. The way people talk, you’re made out to be some kind of Satanist.”

Cecil smiles too.

“The Satanist sodomite with a limp,” he says, “I’m practically Richard the Third.”

Carlos actually laughs, which makes Cecil’s insides warm a little.

“I like you. America hasn’t been kind to me so far,” Carlos says, and they return to the party.

Cecil is about to ask Carlos about how America has been unkind, when Mrs. Bradley makes a beeline to Cecil as they return to the party.

“Where is Mr. Irving,” she says bluntly.

“He wasn’t who he said he was,” Cecil says, “My apologies. The residue will be gone in maybe a half hour.”

“Terrible boy. I presume that Doctor St. Mark is now cognizant of your abilities?” Mrs. Bradley sighs. “And I bet you couldn’t help but show off.”

“You know me so well, Mrs. Bradley!” Cecil says with a smile, turns to Carlos, who looks like he’s just truly registered what happened. “Doctor, can I get you some champagne?”

“I could emancipate you from your reputation with a word of corroboration, and you’re offering me a drink?” Carlos says incredulously. “I just saw something… I don’t know what I saw. But it was real. It wasn’t a figment of your imagination.”

“Don’t talk that way,” Cecil says sweetly, giving Carlos a glass of champagne from nowhere. “People will think you’re mad. Say nothing, and drink to forget.”

He watches Carlos, as that old Night Vale crystal glitters and cast reflections all around the ballroom and in his new flute of champagne. Someone with that strong a chin will want to understand more than he’ll want to forget. And that’s equal parts promising and fearful.


	2. Casting Out Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mishap in Cecil's library causes a case of demonic possession. Carlos has to fix it.

Cecil Palmer, after Carlos gets to know him, is actually quite amiable, if eccentric. He is widely read, but in an extremely narrow field, which makes conversation with him perilous and interesting.

Cecil claims to be well-travelled, but he’s only been to locales that aren’t on any map or globe. It is a refreshing change from those of polite society, who buy whole new sets of travelling clothes and then go for healthful hikes in the Hebrides. Carlos always disliked those people; they were the ones who insisted on referring to him as Charles and ignored the colour of his skin out of good taste, as though it were some shameful secret.

They’re sitting in Cecil’s library, having some very good tea that Cecil says is his own blend. Carlos has taken down a couple of books from the vaulting shelves that look particularly interesting.

“Oh, be careful with those,” Cecil says, and sips his tea. “They mustn’t be read aloud unless one is completely sure of what they do. And even then, one must exercise caution.”

“I didn’t realize you curated such dangerous books,” Carlos says with a smile, though he handles the heavy leatherbound tome in his hand with more caution.

“Are there any books worth keeping that aren’t dangerous?” Cecil says, reaching for a biscuit. “Not in my opinion.”

“But you have unpopular opinions,” Carlos says, “About nearly everything.”

“Indeed. Dangerous books lead to dangerous thoughts,” Cecil smiles. Carlos smiles back, tries not to laugh when Cecil blushes deeply. He is more than aware of Cecil’s obvious affection for him, but it seems to be mostly harmless, and even endearing.

Cecil has no wait staff, not even a valet or a cook. They are in this cavernous and mirrorless mansion on their own. It is clear Cecil doesn’t entertain often, and there’s something endearing about everything that comes with that inexperience; the library setting, the lumpy biscuits and ill-cut cucumbers sandwiches that come with the tea, and the meandering conversation.

He looks back down on the book. There’s a name there, and it’s come up a couple of times. It’s a beautiful name, and it would be more beautiful if said aloud. Surely one word would not hurt. Carlos looks at Cecil and asks,

“Who’s _Bellerion_?”

Cecil’s reaction is immediate. He slams the book shut, slides it across the table. A page slices his finger open, and he brings it to his mouth.

“Carlos. Don’t read aloud from those books,” he says seriously, examines his papercut finger. “Holy Hannah, I think the damn thing might have gotten in.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean those books are powerful, and house several demons, and you summoned one by name,” Cecil says in a tone that’s an odd cross of peevish and fond.

“You never mentioned they house demons!”

Carlos, horrified, closes the other book he was perusing. Cecil is about to say something, but winces. The blood dripping from his finger turns thick and black.

“Cecil, what is going on?”

“I think I might be demonically possessed,” Cecil says placidly. “Luckily, we can stop the spread before it starts. Let’s go to the kitchen. My set of knives is impeccably sharpened, and so one good smack from the meat cleaver should take my hand off.”

“I’m not chopping off your hand!” Carlos almost shouts.

Cecil sighs.

“A shame. I had very stylish prosthetics made in case it ever came to that,” he says with a tinge of sadness in his voice. “I suppose we _could_ undertake a plain old exorcism. But…”

He gestures feebly.

“They’re intricately carved teakwood, the prosthetics,” he finishes, “with fully articulated fingers.”

Carlos opens his mouth, closes it.

“How do we exorcise the demon?”

“Much the same way you did with George Irving. And that was far more difficult, what with the fact that whatever was wearing poor George’s skin had already killed him with the inner expansions. The demon’s barely started assimilating my blood, and,” Cecil says, and then he suddenly shudders. His eyes roll back, and he pitches forward, head hitting the table heavily. After a few seconds of stillness, he sits up again.

“and so we have plenty of time to prepare,” he finishes. Carlos bites his lip.

“All right then,” he says. “let’s go.”

They end up in a small dank part of the cellar with seals drawn crudely on the walls and floor. With some difficulty, Cecil sits on the chair in the very centre of the room, and shivers. His cane clatters to the ground.

“The seals are for your protection. The demon will not be able to pass through them, though I doubt it has enough agency to even move my body with any modicum of coordination,” he says. He looks ill.

“Are you all right?” Carlos asks.

“Exorcisms aren’t any fun, especially for the host,” Cecil says. “Honestly, if you’re squeamish about the prospect of amputation, I can do it myself while you cauterize the wound.”

“Nobody is cutting off or cauterizing any hands tonight,” Carlos says firmly, flipping through the little book that Cecil has given him. “What do I do?”

“Do what you did before,” Cecil says.

“I don’t know what I did before,” Carlos admits, staring at the words he cannot understand. “You were in terrible trouble, and so I just did what seemed obvious.”

“Well, I’m in terrible trouble now. So _intone_ ,” Cecil says. There’s a trace of irritation in his voice, and Carlos knows he must think this all terribly obvious, but he’s still lost. Cecil sighs. “Just read off the page. It’s all gobbledygook, but the power is in the voice.”

“Um. All right,” he says, starts reading the book out loud. It’s not really working. Cecil grimaces and tightens his grip on the chair arms. And then Cecil is gone, and something else controls his face.

“Doctor St. Mark!” it says, hissing that one sibilant. “Was it a fluke then, what you did to my friend who was wearing the Irving suit? Am I to keep possession of this degenerate’s body forever? I would have preferred a better specimen. This one’s leg hurts something fierce.”

Carlos stutters, and the demon laughs.

“Incredible. Gelixas must have been feeble to be chanted out by one like you,” it says, twisting in the chair. The seal underneath it starts glowing faint yellow. “But I am Bellerion. I will not be banished by one as tongue-tied as you. Though you pronounced my name quite trippingly.”

Temporarily mesmerized by Cecil’s voice used in this way, pitched to what must have been _intoning_ , Carlos looks back down at the book. This is his doing, and he must undo it before Cecil is consumed inside and out. He reads, and this time, he _intones_.

Caught in mid-sentence, the demon begins too roar, chafing Cecil’s vocal cords with the ferocity of his cry. Cecil’s body begins to spasm, and thick black ooze spews from his mouth, dyeing his teeth and shirt black.

“Foolish half-breed,” the demon screams. “Stupid _bastard_. You make me leave and I will die!”

“Then go to Hell,” Carlos says, his voice still pitched down to that range which can apparently exorcise.

The demon strains, hurls more insults, and then is silent. Cecil’s body, which was strained as though electrocuted, gives. That thick black tar still oozes from his mouth, and Carlos realizes it must be impeding Cecil’s passage of breath. He rushes over and lies Cecil on his side, digs the ectoplasm out of his throat. Cecil starts coughing, and his eyes blearily open.

“Christ, Cecil, are you all right?” Carlos asks, badly shaken. Cecil blinks, stares at Carlos, and then beams, his blackened teeth almost invisible in the room’s darkness.

“I like when you say my name,” he says weakly, and coughs again. “Ugh. This putrescence in my mouth is vile. I wasn’t even possessed for that long.”

Carlos nods, satisfied that Cecil is awake and talking. Then he pulls a small glass vial from his waistcoat pocket and fills it with the black stuff that’s dripping on the ground from Cecil’s mouth. Cecil watches, quiet.

“I’m sorry. I said awful things,” he says.

“Don’t be sorry. That was the demon speaking. And I have heard much worse from those who cannot claim demonic possession as an excuse,” Carlos says wryly. “Can you stand?”

“My shirt is ruined,” Cecil laments, getting his cane and slowly propping himself up. “It’s from Paris, too.”

Carlos pulls out a handkerchief and proffers it to Cecil, who blushes.

“I can’t use that. It’s too nice,” he says, but he takes the handkerchief anyway. “I don’t know about you, but exorcisms always make me crave the outdoors.”

They walk back upstairs, past mirrorless halls and then to the utilitarian garden Cecil keeps out back. Cecil is shaky on his legs, but once they’re outside, he seems a little more stable.

Carlos’ handkerchief has disappeared, most likely spirited away to a side pocket, and Cecil is just using his own to uselessly blot at the mess on his shirt and face. Carlos notices, but doesn’t comment on it. He figures Cecil can keep the damn handkerchief.

“Are you going to make a habit of saving my life?” Cecil asks presently.

“…If it keeps coming up,” Carlos responds, a little nonplused. “I’m sorry?”

“You mustn’t be. I just wanted to know if I should thank you now, or later,” Cecil says with a bright smile that almost counteracts the inky stains on his face. “As it stands, I feel it pertinent to thank you for exhibiting such concern. It is a rare occurrence these days. I hope you will call again, and soon.”

“Why don’t you call on me instead?” Carlos asks. “I’m not master of much land yet. Just a few rented rooms in the hotel, honestly, but there’s less of a chance of demonic possession when you read my books.”

“That would be lovely,” Cecil says, fingers fiddling with his cane. “But… it will not reflect badly on you, if I am seen calling?”

“Cecil, I’m the black bastard son of a disgraced British noble. American social circles already treat me with the disdain they generally reserve for the nouveau riche and circus freaks,” Carlos says with a self-effacing smile. Cecil looks horrified.

“But you’re…” he says haltingly, and stops. “I beg your pardon. Thank you again.”

“Certainly it was no trouble,” Carlos assures, and makes to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback! Your messages have been so sweet! Also, if anyone has any suggestions for where this ought to go, please do leave a note in the comments.


	3. Analysis

Their acquaintance becomes more and more cemented. Cecil simultaneously regrets and relishes having a new friend. Cards at Mrs. Bradley’s was getting old, and so was solo exorcism and demon-hunting.

Carlos brings an intellectual bent to the previously instinctive approach Cecil had been taking in his field. Cecil never questions the mechanisms or the logic of his world; Carlos is constantly questioning, continuously making connections that Cecil had never seen, or always took for granted.

It would be obnoxious with anyone else, as a certain Mr. _Carlsberg_ demonstrated long ago, but Carlos’ line of reasoning is urbane, and educated.

And he’s just so _smart_!

“You treat demons like an otherworldly force, but they leave very physical traces of their presence,” Carlos says, raising a beaker in demonstration.

They’re in the makeshift laboratory Carlos has set up in his apartments, wearing the thick goggles and lab coats that Carlos insists on. Cecil hopes that the tinted goggles are enough to hide the soft pink blush he can feel on his cheeks.

“Uh-huh?” he says, trying to sound like a recipient of higher learning but failing badly.

“This is a sample of the effluvia that you excreted from your mouth and nose after your encounter with B- that demon,” Carlos explains. “It is mostly organic material, from your body I warrant. Blood, organ, a touch of pulverized bone. That accounts for the bruising you suffer. How have you been recovering, by the way?”

Cecil subconsciously touches the tender skin on his chest.

“I’ve had worse,” he says honestly.

“Good. The organic material, however, does not account for the seemingly black colour of the… are we actually calling it ectoplasm?”

“Call it what you like,” Cecil shrugs. He just likes to hear Carlos talk.

“Anyway, the pigmentation is from this.”

Carlos holds out a slide with powdery, glimmering stuff on it.

“When separated from the paste, this residue takes on some of the properties of graphite,” Carlos says. “Apart from that, I believe that there is no precedent for this material in nature. It appears man made, but it’s… purer somehow. Absolutely bizarre. It can’t have been produced by your body. It must have been left behind by the force that possessed you. Ergo, demons are physical, not metaphysical. I still have to conduct a few tests for trace elements, but if I can find carbon traces, that means demons are from the earth, or something like it."

“You’re so smart, Carlos,” Cecil beams. Carlos stares for a minute- behind the goggles Cecil thinks he blinks.

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know you’re smart, Cecil,” Carlos says seriously.

“I like when you say my name!” Cecil says, resists the urge to batter his feet on the ground like a pleased schoolgirl. _Brilliant, Cecil. He must think you’re an imbecile,_ he thinks, totally mortified.

“Have you saved any of this material from past exorcisms?” Carlos asks after a moment.

“No, I don’t… generally I leave it where it lies, and it degrades,” Cecil says. “I haven’t been focusing on the study of the things that I expel from the world. But I will surely be more considerate in future, now that you’ve expressed an interest in the… chemical makeup and what have you.”

Carlos sighs.

“That would be helpful. Thank you, Mr. Palmer,” he says. They leave the lab shortly after, entering into Carlos’ sitting room. Carlos leaves to make tea, and Cecil sits as soon as he can; today is a bad day for the leg, so even a short walk is painful. Carlos watches him, those beautiful, intelligent eyes so attentive in observation.

“You’re wondering how I hurt my leg,” Cecil says, accepting the cup and saucer gratefully. Carlos makes good tea, if he hasn’t quite the finesse that Cecil is accustomed to. And he has an almost limitless supply of bonbons to eat with tea. It appears the expatriate has an incorrigible sweet tooth.

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to stare,” Carlos says with an abashed frown. Cecil waves away the apology.

“Your curiosity is always so refreshing, Carlos,” he says, “Everyone else is so incredibly jaded. You’re like Percival at King Arthur’s court!”

Carlos does not react to the allusion, probably because it was a bad one. Cecil bites his lip, and continues.

“I have only participated in one duel in my life,” he says. “And the other man was such a bad shot that in aiming for my head, he shattered my kneecap instead.”

“I see. Was _your_ shot true?” Carlos says cautiously.

“I shot into the air. I don’t believe murder is the answer, even honour-sanctioned murder,” Cecil says with a grimace. “Though my aim is quite good, and were he ever to challenge me again, I would surely not be merciful.”

“Who was it?” Carlos asks.

“Mr. Stephen Carlsberg,” Cecil bites out. “I hope you have not had the displeasure of his acquaintance, though that seems unlikely. Despite his _Puritan_ ways, he does have a weakness for socials and salons. Ugh.”

“I’m assuming he challenged you?”

“Yes,” Cecil says. “Though I’m afraid I cannot enlighten you as to the nature of our dispute. It is all very humiliating and petty.”

Carlos seems to know right away what Cecil is referring to, and Cecil colours bright red.

“I swear conflicts won’t happen often. People are the secondary danger in my life,” he says. “Those of society elect mostly to ignore me, and I them. It is the psychical that is my drive now. I do not intend to entangle you in the quagmire that is my list of bêtes noirs.”

“Why do you think I would care?” Carlos asks curiously. “I have no desire to enter into society on this side of the Atlantic. How I have been received merely for existing is a mere appetizer to what I would experience were I to attempt any sort of interaction with the other echelons.”

“I still don’t understand,” Cecil frowns, rubbing his leg in an attempt to ease the ambient low ache. Carlos sighs.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he says. “But I will try to make you see a little more. Do you see these apartments? Small, under furnished for someone of my not inconsiderable wealth. I took them because this is the only building renting rooms that would not require me to enter through the back door like a servant.”

“Oh!” Cecil says. Rage, almost frightening for him, bubbles under his skin. “How do you _tolerate_ …?”

“There is very little recourse for a man of colour when it comes to these matters,” Carlos smiles, a little bitterly. “In spite of rank, wealth, or education, I am still something less than a human because of my skin.”

Cecil can feel a lump in his throat, born from anger or sadness he cannot tell. He is mortified by this town, its intolerance. When it was directed at him, it was all right, understandable even. But when Carlos was hurt, sneered at, despite his perfection, his goodness…

“Are you all right, Cecil?” Carlos asks gently.

“Um, yes, perfectly,” Cecil says, coming out of his reverie.

“Your nose is bleeding.”

Cecil touches his upper lip, comes away with blood on his fingers.

“I’m fairly high-strung,” he says apologetically, pulling out his heavily embroidered handkerchief. “Passions can induce some bleeding. Once I got so angry that my ear-canals were simply flooded with blood.”

“That’s not good,” Carlos frowns. “Though that would be fascinating for study.”

Cecil blushes, even though he should be attempting to avert the blood flow from his face. It’s just… Carlos has called him _fascinating_.

“Mrs. Bradley has invited me for cards this Friday,” Carlos continues. “And she says you may come too, though you have not returned her calling cards.”

“ _Cards_ ,” Cecil says, over-dramatically. He sprawls over the sofa that he has monopolized. “That old hag is determined to take us all into her coven of spinsters and widows.”

“She said that there would be poetry too,” Carlos continues doggedly, “How you do talk of that sweet woman.”

“Yes, I should be more cautious in addressing my only friend. But I promise you, she is just as uncouth as I am. Age and eminence have made her immune to any kind of propriety,” Cecil shrugs. “I suppose I could go to cards with you, if only to protect you from her advances.”

“Lovely,” Carlos says, cracking a slight smile. Cecil smiles back. It is adorable that Carlos thinks he warns him off Mrs. Bradley in jest.

“I suppose I should tell you about the angels, too,” Cecil says after a silence on the right side of friendly. “They like her, for some reason.”

“Now, when you say _angels_ …”

“Ten feet tall, radiant, winged creatures,” Cecil says. “And they cheat at cards. So… be warned.”

“All right,” Carlos says, cautiously. Cecil loves how Carlos gives him the benefit of a doubt, no matter how outlandish his comments.


	4. The Fissure On Main Street

The powder. It is so fine that Carlos initially mistook it for a liquid, blackish purple and sparkling. Even upon painstakingly separating the powder from the other organic material it came with, the sample does appear to have traces of carbon in it. Carlos notes this down with a sense of elation, willing to take any hint of demons being organic beings rather than paranormal ones.

He is aware that it should be contained more carefully, but it remains ever-present on a slide under his microscope. The powder hums, and sometimes it whispers to Carlos when he sleeps. Carlos is self-reliant, strong-willed, and several other compound adjectives, but he will admit that the temptation to consume the powder and imbue himself with the properties is now always present in his mind, ambient noise to other thoughts.

Carlos notes these negative mental effects of the powder down in his journal, and continues with his work. Continues with other things.

Cecil is many things, but subtle he is not. Carlos chooses to ignore the flirtation and the blushing, if only to spare Cecil mortification, but he does notice other things. He notices Cecil’s cologne, a scent like incense and orange that Carlos now strongly associates with magic and nonsense.

He notices that Cecil does strike a good figure in the jewel toned clothes with the occasional hot pink or acid green cravat; in fact, he has his suspicions that Cecil wears a corset, though that has not been the men’s fashion for several years now.

Carlos is not sure about how he feels about Cecil wearing a corset. Actually, he is _quite_ sure how he feels about it, but he elects to ignore his feelings. Cecil remains professional in this odd partnership that they have propagated, and so Carlos will too.

“The fact is you have talent,” Cecil says, flitting about Carlos’s makeshift laboratory. They don’t meet in Cecil’s library anymore, out of an ardent desire to avoid anymore exorcisms. “Not just scientific talent, of course, though you have that in spades. I mean _magic_. You can intone, and that can’t be learned at university, no matter how prestigious the school.”

“Mr. Palmer, don’t touch that,” Carlos says in response. He doesn’t even have to look to know that Cecil is holding a beaker up to his unprotected face. “And put on some goggles.”

“Hmmph,” Cecil says, and there is the conspicuous clink of him putting a beaker back to where it was. “I don’t think you listen to me sometimes.”

“I am listening,” Carlos says. “And I am telling you I’m not magic. That’s ridiculous.”

“Really? You performed two exorcisms with no magical ability at all?” Cecil says skeptically.

“I can’t explain how it happened yet, but I’m working on it,” Carlos says. Cecil twists his mouth in an inscrutable expression, crosses his arms. “Supernatural creatures exist, but latent supernatural powers, Cecil? I don’t think so.”

“Two weeks ago you thought me deranged for writing about angels and demons and glow clouds. Last night you played cards with Mrs. Bradley’s angels, but now you think that magical people are ridiculous?” Cecil says incredulously. “Really Carlos. I’m magic, for heaven’s sake.”

“I haven’t seen you do any magic,” Carlos says. Cecil looks like he wants to contradict, but then realizes that Carlos is right. “Would you be open to a demonstration?”

“Well, I’m not a drawing room medium. Good Lord,” Cecil says, clearly offended. “As the son of a seeress it would be irresponsible, no, _undignified_ for me to…”

“I’m sorry,” Carlos says quickly. “I didn’t realize that this was a matter of contention for you.”

“Oh, I know you wouldn’t deliberately say anything to upset me,” Cecil says. “But you mustn’t be so concentrated on having proof for every little thing that I tell you about. Believe what you feel in your heart.”

Carlos wants dearly to tell Cecil that the heart doesn’t provide him any data apart from his pulse rate, but Cecil is not to be reasoned with when he gets overly… well, theoretical is a good word for it.

There is a frantic knock on the door. Carlos sheds his gloves and goggles and moves to answer it while Cecil awkwardly sits down.

A nondescript boy with bright blue eyes and many freckles stands there, a piece of paper in his hands.

“Is Mister Cecil Palmer here?” he asks. Carlos looks over his shoulder. Cecil is slowly shaking his head.

“No,” Carlos says with an easy smile, blocking the doorway with his body. The child stares at him inscrutably. “Can I help you instead, lad?”

“I need Mister Cecil Palmer to get this. It’s a matter of some urgency,” the boy says, thrusting the paper in Carlos’ hand and then running down the hall. Carlos watches, puzzled, and then turns to Cecil.

“Does this happen a lot?” he asks.

“Yes. I despise the children they send,” Cecil says sourly, limps over to Carlos for the paper, which is blue and contains a long copperplate scrawl. He reads it, and rolls his eyes. “ _Of course._ ”

“What is it?”

“A Fissure has opened, cracking Main Street in two,” Cecil says, and goes for his hat. “Two carriages have already been swallowed up, horses and all! One of them belonged to Marcus Vansten, though thankfully he was not in it. So, even though I am a social pariah and nobody in this godforsaken town has said a kind word to me in years, _I_ must go and close the Fissure before any more perish. Ugh.”

Carlos hasn’t seen such a dark shadow pass over his associate’s face before. It is a little disconcerting.

“Shall I come?”

“If you like,” Cecil says. “It will be dreadfully dull, I fear. Likely a couple of sigils will close the Fissure right up.”

When they get there, people are wholeheartedly ignoring the large Fissure in Main Street, that is also exuding a black energy that makes Carlos think again to that powder in his laboratory. Carriages gingerly navigate around the Fissure, and people conduct their business as usual.

“So typical. Spiritual energy in broad daylight and still everyone would prefer to call me mad,” Cecil says, and ambles directly to the Fissure. “Bloodshed could be avoided if everyone knew maybe five or six different seals and sigils, but no, that would be unseemly. A few people should die instead!”

He takes out a piece of lavender chalk from his pocket and kneels down with some difficulty on the ground by the fissure. Cecil is glowing, Carlos realizes, a silver that is unsettling and calming all at once. When his glowing fingertips touch the cobblestone street that hasn’t been melted by the Fissure, there is a tone, like a wine glass being struck by a baton, delicate and resonant.

Everyone on the street has stopped pretending that all is normal. They are stock still, staring at Cecil. Cecil is oblivious; he is drawing circular, interconnected sigils with the utmost concentration on his face. His mouth is moving quickly, and Carlos realizes he’s still muttering passive-aggressive vitriol at the town.

The Fissure is beginning to close. Cecil looks up, nods, then pulls out a small ornate knife from his waistcoat and cuts his thumb open, pressing the pad against the seal. Immediately, the Fissure sews itself up, leaving only non-cobblestoned earth where it was. Carlos hurries over to Cecil to help him from his crouching position. Cecil dusts himself off, still glowing.

“That was absolutely remarkable!” Carlos says with a dumbfounded smile. Cecil doesn’t seem to register the compliment.

“Doctor, we should leave,” he says shortly. “We have about five minutes before the crowd turns.”

The sentence is enough to steal the breath from Carlos’ throat.

“What do you mean?” Carlos asks hesitantly. Cecil nods towards the townspeople, who are still completely silent. And then a cobblestone dislodged from the ground hits Cecil square in the chest, making him stagger. “Oh, Good Lord.”

“I’ve saved your town again, you ungrateful ingrates,” Cecil wheezes. “Next time I’ll just let it unravel like a run in a sweater.”

“Cecil, let’s go,” Carlos says, ducks another rock, and then he notices that Cecil’s ambient glow has started intensifying, into an almost unbearable light.

“They always hurt me. My good deeds turn to ash in their minds, because of their _fear_ ,” Cecil murmurs. His distraught voice is splintered into several voices that are nonetheless all unmistakably Cecil. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Carlos says, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. He’s heard stories of mass hysteria and lynch mobs, and the crowd is getting larger and more charged by the second. “Cecil! We can think about this later, inside. All right?”

“I just want to help,” Cecil says. His feet have left the ground, and he seems to be almost absentmindedly floating away from Main Street. Carlos can do nothing but follow. The only recognizable thing about Cecil now is his voice, which is void of inflection and seems to be mostly in Carlos’ head. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“You’ve done a good job,” Carlos says. The crowd seems content to leave them alone now after that initial outburst of violence. Perhaps they are scared by Cecil’s new form.

“This town is what killed my mother,” Cecil continues. “And I stayed. Because Night Vale would fall without what she gave me. I wanted so much to travel. But I can never leave.”

Even though Cecil is not emoting, this is awful, heart-wrenching, to hear these words that drip with the ease of a confessional. These are thoughts that aren’t meant for Carlos. He thinks Cecil is crying, though he can’t tell through the bright silver light.

“Hold his hand, you fool!” someone yells from across street. Carlos looks up helplessly, sees Mrs. Bradley flanked by two angels in matching hats.

“Hold his hand?” he repeats. Mrs. Bradley jabs her fan at him in irritation, and he finally reaches up through the light to wear he approximates Cecil’s hand to be.

Cecil’s skin is clammy and the fingers barely twitch when Carlos’ curl around them. Unsure of what to do, he pulls on Cecil’s hand and curses when the silver light fades and Cecil crumples to the ground with a thump and a clatter of his cane. He is unconscious, but his eyes are open, and the sclerae are totally black behind purple irises.

“Not a moment too soon, eh lad?” Mrs. Bradley says. “He could have manifested if you tarried any further, and then where would he be? Erika, get him off the ground. And Erika, why don’t you take his cane?”

“Is he all right?” Carlos asks hesitantly. “I didn’t know that he could do that. He sounded so sad.”

“He’ll be right as rain with tea and something sweet. He tells me you have better cakes squirreled away for teatime than I do,” Mrs. Bradley says with a humph. “So why don’t I have Erika and Erika deposit him there.”

Carlos offers no argument to this plan, and he and the angels walk back to his apartments in total silence.

Cecil begins to come to when an Erika sets him down on Carlos’ chaise longue, blinking his eyes wearily and coughing.

“Carlos,” he says. “I closed up the Fissure.”

“Yes, you did,” Carlos responds. Cecil cracks a slow smile.

“Then you saw me _do magic_ ,” he teases gently. Carlos is surprised by the flippant statement, but smiles too.

“I will be in existential crisis trying to parse what it all means,” he promises. Cecil smiles as though this were the highest compliment he could receive. “I’ll make tea. And I think I have a packet of macarons that were not turned to powder during the Atlantic passage.”

Cecil sits up a little in the chaise longue, massaging where the cobblestone struck him in the chest absentmindedly. Carlos thinks as he brews the tea that he cares for Cecil a bit more than the limits of a professional relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of updates! School caught up with me and I just asdfghjkl'd. Have a longish chapter for all your patience!


	5. Mountains and Kodaks

Earl Harlan finally returns to Night Vale, takes up residence in his father’s home, which was kept empty but well-tended for him. He wears strange clothes, brings with him strange things. Brings with him a dark-haired woman, petite and delicate and laughing.

Cecil watches from his dark little room with the pieces of crystal on the table. Resonances like glass pianos ricochet on the walls and on his skin. He fits together the crystal so he can get a clearer picture of the adventurer’s return, and some of Harlan’s past comes through as well. His leg aches, but he doesn’t mind right now.

The doorbell has been ringing for the last five minutes. Cecil really should get a servant, if only to answer the door and lie about his whereabouts, but the fact is that hired help never sticks in this house, and after losing Dana, he’s determined that it just isn’t worth the risk. He sighs, puts his crystal away, and starts going to the door.

“Do you realize it is 8:30 in the morning?” he says, blinking in the bright light after his dark room session.

“Good morning, Cecil,” says a voice Cecil thought he’d never hear again. He blinks hard again, and registers Earl Harlan.

“What do you want, you great Irish bastard?” he grins.

“Well hello to you too, you bloody lunatic,” Earl says, returning the grin. “I see time hasn’t sweetened your disposition. Good.”

“Did you want to come in?” Cecil asks.

“If that’s not too taxing. I’d have thought Miss Dana would answer the door. Is it her day off?” Earl says, taking off his battered hat and coat.

“Dana vanished a while ago. It’s a real pity, but I haven’t much of a household to run, as you know.”

Cecil takes Earl’s hat and coat, draping them over the large chair he keeps in the lobby for the valet he has not hired. While he does, he sneaks a couple of appraising glances at Earl. The travelling and the mountains have been _kind_ to him. Earl coughs awkwardly and shuffles, as though he were twelve years old.

“Er… Dana vanished?”

“You promised to write, Mister Harlan, but after you reached Tibet, the letters did drop off suddenly. For two years,” Cecil says. “For my part, I tried to write back, but you know how the postal service is in Night Vale. Mailmen around every five minutes and then not at all for three months.”

“Well, I hope to catch you up,” Earl says, and follows Cecil into the drawing room. “You can be the recipient of my first good news, actually!”

“Oh?”

“I’ve brought a wife with me!” Earl says, “Well, a fiancée, but we are to be wedded quite soon.”

“Oh,” Cecil says. “Congratulations. Is she pretty?”

Earl looks at Cecil, squints slightly.

“You already knew,” he says. There’s no accusation in his voice, instead it’s a carefully studied neutral tone.

“I have made some inferences, yes, but I can’t have known. I’ve been in the house all this morning,” Cecil says lightly, far too lightly. “Well? Is she pretty?”

“How about some tea?” Earl says after a long moment. He sits down in the chair he always favoured when they were younger, and pulls a satchel from the inside of his waistcoat. “Do you still like that expensive smoked black stuff from Ceylon?”

“Oh Earl, how sweet of you to remember,” Cecil says softly. “How sweet that you’ve come to say goodbye.”

“I didn’t write because I didn’t know how to tell you. But I love Lydia,” Earl says. “She’s saved my life on several occasions in those mountains, and she’s intelligent and funny and caring.”

“I _am_ caring,” Cecil says. “And I’ve saved your life. Numerous times.”

Earl sighs.

“She’s not a man,” he points out. “Nor is she magical. Cecil, I… I liked what we had, but even you have to understand that it couldn’t have been anything more than…”

“I understand,” Cecil says. “You have a fiancée.”

“Thank you, Cecil,” Earl says.

“How about that tea? I’m sure you have a lot to tell me about the world,” Cecil says. “I’ll just to the kitchen.”

He grabs his cane and accepts the tea from Earl, and starts propelling himself to the kitchen.

“Cecil!” Earl says, gets up from his chair. “I hadn’t noticed before, but your leg, oh goodness.”

Cecil smiles a little in spite of himself. Earl is at his side, hand at the small of his back.

“When did this happen?”

“Around the time you were in Morocco, if I recall correctly,” Cecil says. “It was a stupid duel.”

“Cecil, you’re a _pacifist_ ,” Earl says. “Why would you get into a duel? Who was your second?”

“What’s a sec...?”

Cecil’s question is broken off by Earl kissing him like he used to. There’s an underlying gentleness to the kiss, and Cecil loses himself for a minute before pushing Earl away.

“No,” he mutters, not without regret. Earl’s hands hold his elbows. “You’re getting married. This isn’t proper. You… you shouldn’t have come.”

“All right,” Earl says bluntly. “What the hell is going on? This town feels different than when I left. It’s downright malignant; I feel like I’ve been watched from when I set foot on my estate, and it’s a different feeling from when you’re watching me. I thought that you were supposed to protect the city, Cecil, and that’s why you couldn’t come with me.”

“I’m trying,” Cecil says irritably, cocks his head slightly. “Is that the doorbell?”

“I didn’t hear…”

They are interrupted by the doorbell ringing. Earl stares at Cecil, and then lets go of him gently.

“You sit down. I’ll get it,” he says.

“If it’s a messenger child, tell him I’m not here.”

Earl gives him another one of those stares, the ones that make Cecil feel strange in his own skin, but he goes to answer the door. He returns in a moment with a thick blue card from the City Council. Cecil sighs.

“You used to love these summons,” Earl says. Cecil smiles bitterly, unfolds the paper. “I now dread Night Vale. This place has become diseased.”

“Under my watch,” Cecil snaps. “I am aware.”

The letter lies forgotten on the edge of his chair, but rage is bubbling under his skin and he can smell copper, the precursor to a nosebleed.

“You have been here for maybe a day, Earl Harlan. I have watched this place while it fell for something like _five years_ ,” he says. “Welcome to Night Vale. It is not as grand as you remember. Now, tell me why you are here.”

“I need to settle my estate affairs, and then I am leaving. Lydia and I are moving to Massachusetts. She wants to be a Vassar girl, imagine that,” Earl cracks a brief smile.

“You won’t be staying?” Cecil asks, a little stung in spite of himself.

“Night Vale is a prospecting city with very few prospects, Cecil. My father made his investment back, ten thousand times over. I am richer than my grandfather could ever have imagined,” Earl says, “And I’m grateful for that and for meeting. But I need to leave. I’m just sorry that you can’t follow.”

“Why would I follow you?”

The retort is too bitter for Earl and Cecil instantly regrets it. His lips thin, and he nods towards Cecil.

“It was good to see you again, Mister Palmer, if only for a brief while,” he says. “I was a fool to think that you would be reasonable.”

“I have no taste for vengeance and you should be grateful, Mister Harlan,” Cecil says, drawing his lips back in a vicious grin. “My mother would have annihilated the man who trifled with her affection and then insulted her work.”

“Good day,” Earl says, and he turns tail. Cecil is far too pained to see if he’s forgotten his hat and coat. He sits in his chair, contemplating a good hair loss hex. Cecil may not have a taste for vengeance, but the idea of Earl Harlan confined to a toupee for the rest of his days is extremely gratifying.

Cecil doesn’t want to be here. His leg hurts, and his head is hurting and he can’t control some of magical impulses. He shuts his eyes, and rests his head against the back of the chair, and thinks of some place better than his deserted home.

And when he opens his eyes, he finds himself in Carlos’ lab, wearing the clothes he finds ideal and not needing his cane. Carlos, who was looking at something through the microscope, visibly jumps in his seat when he sees Cecil. They stare at each other for a long while.

“I… I didn’t hear you ring,” he finally says.

“I didn’t,” Cecil says, and frowns. “I shouldn’t be here. Usually I manifest in the sky somewhere.”

“Manifest?” Carlos asks. Cecil sighs, walks through a table. Carlos turns a most interesting colour, and tries to collect himself.

“Earl Harlan is in town,” Cecil explains.

“Who’s Earl Harlan. Why did you need to leave your body because he’s in town?” Carlos says. “That is what happened, right? You’re not _dead_ , are you?”

“No,” Cecil says, can’t find the energy to smile. “Though your worry is duly noted and appreciated. Could you light a flame? The flame will ground me better.”

Carlos fumbles with a match and lights a lamp. His hands are shaking a little.

“Do you mind if I run some tests? Or will that be… distressing?”

“I’m already most distressed. That is what inspires my astral projection. A little poking and prodding won’t make me any worse.”

Carlos nods, takes a couple of vials and a stirring rod. Cecil sighs, concentrates enough to sit in the air. Carlos reacts a little better.

“So have you always been able to do this?” he asks, to make conversation. Cecil nods, then frowns and shakes his head.

“I had to learn it. It was very early on, though,” he explains.

“Remarkable.”

“I could teach you to do it, if you like. You seem like the type that would really benefit from astral projection.”

“Is that what this is!” Carlos says, and sets his vials aside now that he’s realized the futility of trying to collect a sample. “Amazing. What would happen if I tried to take a photograph?”

“Truly, I don’t know,” Cecil says, finally managing a slight smile. “You have a camera?”

“It’s just a Kodak, but it will work for our purposes,” Carlos says, and opens a drawer, pulling out a large black box.

“I haven’t seen myself in years!” Cecil says gleefully. “This will be an experience!”

“What do you mean, you haven’t seen yourself?” Carlos asks, setting the camera up.

“Precisely that,” Cecil says. “Oh, this is so exciting!”

“I think I have something like ten exposures left, and then I have to mail the film to the Kodak offices,” Carlos explains. “So it might take a while to get the film developed and returned.”

“That’s all right!” Cecil says.

And he finds that he is smiling wider than he has in living memory. A truly momentous occasion to capture on film.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the first camera made for casual photographers was produced in 1888 by the newly minted company Kodak. It cost about $20, and it was capable of 100 exposures! My headcanon is that Carlos is a bit of a photography buff, even if he mostly uses it for science.


	6. What Was In Leanne Hart

Carlos wonders why it is that Cecil must perform so many exorcisms, close so many rifts. He himself is coming no closer to understanding even remotely what goes on in this little town, much less the powers that he must have, but remain dormant. Cecil is little help; his powers came naturally or with little tutelage. He was raised in Night Vale, and has little concept of how things work outside, how rationality and logic are sometimes incompatible with the magic Carlos apparently has.

Carlos can explain the function and use of a camera to Cecil easily, but no matter how many times Cecil tries to explain astral projection or his method of exorcism, it comes off as instinctual, unlearnable. And Cecil might never admit it, but Carlos knows he must be getting frustrated.

Carlos’ attraction to Cecil is building, which is troublesome, because Cecil has lately been distant. Carlos doesn’t miss the swooning, or the comments about his hair or determined chin. He does miss Cecil’s warmth and friendly conversation. Cecil is almost antiseptic in his politeness.

And then they have the case at the Hart House.

“You were the last person we called,” Mrs. Hart says frankly. She is a woman who manages to be pinched and corpulent at the same time. She holds herself with a poise that rivals even the Dowager Empress’s. Carlos feels about five inches tall in her presence, though she is pointedly ignoring him, and is amazed Cecil doesn’t wilt under her direct glare.

“I should be the first,” Cecil says seriously. “Anything of this nature will require my expertise and that should be sooner rather than later, if you want a good outcome. Regardless of my sexual inversion or the company I keep. Now, where is your daughter?”

Mrs. Hart bristles, but leads Cecil and Carlos to a child’s bedroom, opening the doorway while averting her eyes. A smell, like copper and glucose, almost gags Carlos.

The young Miss Hart is a slight seventeen and naked as the day she was born. Black effluvia bursts from her skin through the pores. Her eyes are flooded with it. She is so still that Carlos fears the worst, though he can see the slight rise of her chest with shallow breaths. Cecil looks at Mrs. Hart.

“This is an advanced state. The inner expansions have almost certainly eaten at some of her organs. I can save and heal her, but she will be in pain for the rest of her life, though she is lucky she has her youth,” he says coldly. “It has likely pressed against her brain and caused her mind damage. Demonic possession is the least of her worries.”

“You said you could fix it,” Mrs Hart says shortly. “She must be suitable for marriage, and motherhood. Anything after that I do not care for.”

“Well her uterus is likely intact,” Cecil snaps. “I will require you to leave. Doctor, will you please cover the mirrors in the room.”

“Of course,” Carlos says, cautiously walks in and covers the dressing room mirror with a painting that was on the wall. The smell is almost overwhelming in the actual room. He looks at Miss Hart, feels a huge amount of worry at her stillness. When Mrs. Hart leaves, Cecil takes out his book and a stick of lavender chalk, and walks in.

“This is a very quiet possession,” Carlos says after a moment of silence. Cecil nods, scrawling sigils on the headboard of the child’s bed that the young woman lies in. “Why is she so still?”

“Laudanum,” he says, pursing his lips in disapproval, “I can smell it on her breath.”

As though on queue, Miss Hart stirs from her sleep, and her mouth lolls open. Carlos lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Well, hello,” the thing in Miss Hart says with a confused smile. “You’re not a priest.”

“Were you expecting one?” Cecil asks, and Carlos is taken aback by the gentleness in his tone. He hasn’t accompanied Cecil on many exorcisms, but Cecil’s never been one for a soft touch when it comes to demons. Here he is almost congenial.

“She has asked every member of the clergy and every wandering preacher to pray over Miss Hart. It was getting tedious. Already I like you better. Why did the mirror have to be covered?”

“So I don’t see myself. What’s your name?” Cecil asks.

“Rheon,” it says.

“And you must be in some pain. Miss Hart is not a suitable vessel,” Cecil says. “What did you mean to accomplish by hurting the young lady?”

“Are you appealing to my greater nature?” Rheon says, licking Miss Hart’s lips, “I _am_ a demon.”

“I don’t think you are,” Cecil says. “Though you might act like one, I think you are something else.”

“What then?” Rheon asks skeptically, and Carlos has to admit that he, too, is curious. Cecil finishes another sigil on the headboard before answering.

“Young ladies of our time are very easily frustrated, I find, particularly the intelligent ones. I have met Miss Hart. Extraordinary intellect for her age, but she is stifled by her mother, status, and her lot in life as a female. Some young women like Miss Hart choose to manifest their anger through phenomenon classed as poltergeist activity. Others cause chaos on themselves, a suicide far more gruesome and drawn out than any other.”

“You’re talking out of your ass,” Rheon snarls. Carlos’ eyebrows raise, but Cecil doesn’t even blink.

“If you think crude language will faze me, _Rheon_ , then you must have a young lady’s sensibilities. You are simply Miss Hart by another name,” Cecil says quietly. “And I _am_ appealing to your greater nature, Leanne. If you die like this, do you know what will happen to your immortal soul?”

“More preaching? How very disappointing.”

“Preaching is the realm of the rhetorical. I’m afraid I’m being entirely literal. When someone chooses to destroy herself so completely as you, dear, their soul is jettisoned to a dark place and twisted. Eventually you will be a demon, with even less agency than you have now. Leanne, you still have the chance to be loved.”

“Oh, _pathetic_ ,” Rheon smiles languidly, “You speak from experience. But you have no chance to be loved, isn’t that right? You are a sexual invert and Momma… that woman says you are an abomination. Who could love that?”

Cecil looks genuinely wounded. Carlos can see nothing of the righteous anger and flippancy he displayed before. But even with this display, the black ectoplasm in Miss Hart’s eyes are now clear, and the black stuff leaking from her pores begins to fall from her body like wax from a bronze mold.

“Very few,” he says, too honestly, “and not for very long. But I have a duty that keeps me grounded. You have no such duty, Leanne, but I know that you are intelligent. Have you considered writing?”

“Ladies only write threepenny novels,” Miss Hart says with distaste. She is covered in ectoplasm, but none of it comes from her body now. “Momma would never approve.”

“Welcome back, Miss Hart,” Cecil says with a slow genuine smile that Carlos has never seen, “How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” Miss Hart says, sits up quite primly, and vomits black stuff onto the floor. Cecil gives her a blanket for her modesty and a handkerchief for her mouth. “What’s happening to me?”

“You’re going to feel better in a few moments. Doctor, did you want to take samples?” Cecil asks.

“Cecil, how did you do that?” Carlos asks, pulling a couple of vials from his waistcoat. “You said no incantations, and you performed no spells.”

“I’ll explain in greater detail later, but in this case it looks like all that was required was my presence,” Cecil says, then corrects himself. “Our presence.”

“Our presence?” Carlos says skeptically.

“Well, of course. You channel good energy too. Curiosity, for one. A certain concern that is very endearing,” Cecil says, averting Carlos’ eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Carlos says, but Leanne Hart has finished vomiting, and it looks like this is a discussion that will have to wait.

“I am quite well now,” she says; even naked and covered in black pitch, she possesses the imposing poise that her mother has. “I thank you, gentlemen. Can you see yourselves out?”

“Of course, Miss Hart,” Cecil says warmly, and the two men get up. Mrs. Hart rushes in as they leave.

Night Vale’s sun is setting, leaving the unnervingly clear sky dotted with thousands of stars behind. Carlos looks up, sees Orion. Cecil just walks on, briskly for him.

“Cecil, is there…” Carlos trails off, the words ‘something wrong’ stuck in his throat, “a way to explain how you cured Miss Hart?”

“When a fruit rots, it begins to smell, and it secretes,” Cecil says. “If you eat a rotting fruit, you will become sick for certain, but even sitting in a room filled with that stench…”

He gestures around the street.

“The town is the fruit. It festers. It makes people sick,” Carlos says in sudden realization. Cecil nods approvingly. “But I still don’t know how you helped her.”

“I simply made her remember what is human. The good and the bad, but only the positive. Honesty, caring,” he says, hesitates. “Hurt.”

“Have I hurt you?” Carlos asks.

“What would make you think such a thing!” Cecil says in a bright tone, unable to meet Carlos’ eyes. He sighs, energy leaving him completely. “Is it so transparent?”

“I swear if I did something that upset you, I had no idea,” Carlos says. 

“Oh, you couldn’t do _anything_ to make me feel badly,” Cecil says, colouring a deep red that goes up to his ears. “I met an old acquaintance. It was the day I manifested in your lab.”

Carlos nods. That day had been unforgettable for several reasons. Not least of all because that was the day he had seen Cecil freed from the constraints of the near-constant weariness he experienced. It was also the first time Carlos had seen Cecil smile with unbridled happiness, while they took pictures.

He hesitated to use this descriptor, but Carlos had thought Cecil truly beautiful that day. Now and again, that beauty he had seen in Cecil then would sometimes shine through the shell of exhaustion and pain. Not right now. Now Cecil looked like he was truly struggling to keep himself in his body.

“And this acquaintance of yours hurt you?” Carlos prods.

“I don’t believe he meant to. Harlan always lacked the personal touch,” Cecil says briefly. “He loved me once. It was a pleasant change. And then he left, and he’s leaving again.”

“Oh,” Carlos says, feeling useless.

“I suppose I had certain expectations that can’t be met,” Cecil says with a smile that does not originate from happiness. “But I was frustrated nonetheless. Everything gets very heavy when I get that way, and I ended up at your lab. Which was _lovely_ , but, you know, I had to go back at some point. And the heaviness was still there, further exacerbated by how empty that big ugly house is. And then I had too much to drink and one day turned into another and, well.”

He looks up at the sky.

“I can see far too many stars, Doctor,” he says with a small frown. “We mustn’t loiter on the street on a night like this.”

“But it’s beautiful,” Carlos says.

“Precisely. When this town deigns to be beautiful, it’s because something awful is coming.”

The quiet resignation in Cecil’s voice is more than heartbreaking. Carlos and Cecil walk to the latter’s house in silence. Carlos has a compulsion to touch Cecil, hold his hand, one that he doesn’t follow through on.

And then there’s a gunshot, and Carlos finds himself on the ground, cold shock blocking out the inevitable pain.


	7. Forgotten Dreams

The Night Vale Crystal refracts on the polished ballroom floor. Carlos blinks. He’s not sure how he got here, why Mrs. Bradley’s ballroom floor is empty except him… and Cecil.

Cecil looks like he does in astral projection, unburdened by injury or exhaustion. He smiles wide when he sees Carlos, walks over to him.

“I’ve never been one for dancing,” he says with a self-deprecating smile, “but the musicians are good tonight. Shall you lead?”

Carlos must be emboldened by wine or the moon or some other lunacy but he puts his arm around Cecil’s waist and holds his hand, leading him to the floor.

Cecil dances marvelously, even in the woman’s part.

“Cecil, is there a reason you asked me to dance?” Carlos says, suddenly realizing what they’re doing. Cecil smiles, presses in closer.

“I’m not Cecil,” he says, that smile spreading into a rictus that stretches far beyond his teeth. “But you know my name, Doctor.”

_Bellerion. _Carlos lets go of his dance partner, repulsed. How could he have mistaken this poor facsimile for Cecil?__

__“Oh,” Bellerion says with a pout. “Your arms are so strong, Doctor St. Mark. A pity that you are of Tesla’s stock, or… Turing’s? Do you know about Alan Turing yet? No? Ah, no mind.”_ _

__“Why am I here?” Carlos asks angrily._ _

__“You are dreaming. It is a heavy, drugged sleep,” Bellerion says. “You met with an accident. Or maybe it was not an accident. Either way, you were shot, and you and I are here.”_ _

__“That’s another thing. Why are you here?” Carlos says, patting his pockets for the book that Cecil gave him. Bellerion smiles._ _

__“Clever boy. I told you it’s a dream and you didn’t believe me,” he says. “I’m here because you trapped me in your body.”_ _

__“I did not. I killed you,” Carlos says, uncertainly._ _

__“Well, there’s the small matter of the powder you have in your laboratory,” Bellerion says. “It sings. It speaks to you at night, mm-hmm in Cecil’s voice yes? It also rides the air like pollen, settling where it may. So there’s a little bit of me in you. Isn’t that scandalous?”_ _

__“You possessed me?” Carlos asks, frantically wondering how to wake up._ _

__“Goodness. I haven’t any power for that. I am not possessing you, but I am resident, Carlos,” Bellerion says. “Will we dance again? I thought you looked quite content.”_ _

__“I think I would prefer to leave,” Carlos says, as the double doors to the ballroom fling open._ _

__“Carlos!” Cecil, real and panicked, eyes wide as a prophet’s. “Oh Carlos, you’re still here. Thank God, I…”_ _

__He falters when he sees Bellerion._ _

__“What the hell is going on?” Carlos asks. Cecil bites his lip._ _

__“It’s difficult to explain,” he says quietly. The ballroom starts to dim from its abrasive, crystalline light. The chandeliers are gone, though Bellerion remains. “I… oh heavens, it is difficult to talk with the demon in the room.”_ _

__“Cecil, how’s the leg?” Bellerion says cheerfully. Cecil colours and hisses something in that language from his book. Bellerion wilts, and then sashays away._ _

__The ballroom is completely gone now, replaced by a field of blue flowers that have a gently sweet scent._ _

__“Where are we now?” Carlos asks, looking around. Cecil sighs contentedly and climbs up a tree onto a low-hanging branch. Carlos follows after a moment of hesitation._ _

__“You don’t recognize it?” Cecil says cheerily. Apple blossoms bloom from the branches of their perch. “It is my garden at home. Just expanded. With flowers I like, for once. Here I can tend to them to my heart’s content.”_ _

__“Why don’t you garden in the actual…?” Carlos looks to Cecil’s leg, not injured here. “I see.”_ _

__“Yes, I cannot spend as much time on my knees as perhaps I did before,” Cecil says with his typical humour._ _

__“You said you could heal Miss Hart,” Carlos says cautiously. “Can you not heal yourself?”_ _

__“If I began to heal myself, I wouldn’t stop until there was nothing of me left,” Cecil says. “There is so much wrong with me, you see.”_ _

__“I’m sorry,” Carlos says, “I didn’t think.”_ _

__“Carlos,” Cecil says with undisguised admiration. “You think too much. That’s what makes you such a great man.”_ _

__“You don’t truly think that of me.”_ _

__“No. I think so much more of you,” Cecil says, looking away._ _

__“Was I truly shot?” Carlos asks, quickly changing tack._ _

__“Yes. I believe they were aiming me, whoever they were. Miss Hart has healed, but she wishes to be a suffragette now. Marriage is no longer in the cards for her.”_ _

__Cecil is jiggling one of his knees and he is looking pointedly at the ground, as though he’s done something terribly wrong._ _

__“I got you hurt. I hope you will forgive me,” he mutters._ _

__“You didn’t pull the trigger,” Carlos reasons, watches the apple blossoms change to small purple blooms. “I don’t even feel any pain. Was there a surgery?”_ _

__“Of course they had to dig the bullet out first, but I took the liberty of healing you,” Cecil says. “You’re quite well, if drugged to heaven.”_ _

__Carlos smiles, and then gestures around him._ _

__“How are you doing this?”_ _

__“Oh,” Cecil says, “I didn’t like the thought of you wandering around alone down here. Laudanum’s an awful drug. Perhaps my concern was not unfounded, given that I saw you with a malignant entity as soon as I entered.”_ _

__“I don’t know how he’s here,” Carlos says. Cecil’s brow furrows._ _

__“Nor do I. I haven’t seen anything like that, ever,” he says. “Well, I’m sure it was a laudanum dream. Those do still happen, I suppose. Unless there’s another reason he could linger?”_ _

__Carlos thinks to the powder’s song, shakes his head._ _

__“Well, then we’ll never see anything from that demon ever, probably,” Cecil smiles. “If I leave, will you be all right?”_ _

__“If it doesn’t trouble you, could you stay?” Carlos asks, so quiet he may not have talked. Maybe it’s still the threat of Bellerion in his thoughts, or maybe it’s the false memory of dancing with Cecil, but the thought of being without the other man for this time is a little overwhelming. Cecil hears though, and is radiant at the request._ _

__“You likely won’t remember this, after you wake up,” he says. “I will be surprised if you remember the few days preceding. Once I took laudanum and it was only because I had a journal-writing habit that I have any idea what happened during that week.”_ _

__A slight breeze tangles through the leaves of their tree, playing with Cecil’s hair. Carlos, still taken by the novelty of this world, leans over and kisses Cecil on the lips. Cecil’s eyes widen, and he nearly falls out of the tree._ _

__“You mustn’t… you…” he stammers, colouring vividly. “Oh.”_ _

__“What do you truly think of me?” Carlos asks, “I’ve had my suspicions but…”_ _

__“I love you,” Cecil says, clearly terrified even as the words leave his mouth. “I can only say it because I know you won’t remember, or I hope you won’t. Even saying it like this ruins everything.”_ _

__“Cecil,” Carlos says, grasping Cecil’s hand. It is shaking, but Cecil doesn’t pull away. “I think I like you as well, and even as you like. If you are right and I don’t remember saying this later, do with the information as you please. Does that set your mind at ease?”_ _

__Cecil is staring. His mouth works without sound for a couple of moments._ _

__“That… yes. I’d never even _dared_ hope that you would, or could reciprocate,” he stutters. He still looks terrified, but it is mixed in with happiness and Carlos’ heart warms a little. “Oh, that someone as _whole_ as you could even have such affections, that was never possible for me.”_ _

__“I want you to know that we are possible,” Carlos says. He wonders where this audacity even comes from. Cecil seems to be on the verge of fainting, though they are in a dream world. “Cecil, you’ll fall out of the tree.”_ _

__“I may _fly_ instead!” Cecil crows, and leans over to peck Carlos on the cheek. When he pulls away, he looks mildly scandalized at his own exuberance. “I must be bright red.”_ _

__“Positively crimson,” Carlos laughs in spite of himself. They’re still holding hands._ _

__“What odd birds we make,” Cecil says, still giddy. “I love you!”_ _

__Carlos grins, open his mouth._ _

__“I lo-”_ _

____ _

__Cecil finds himself back in his own body, sitting by Carlos. He smiles, and refrains from touching Carlos’ hair. In a few minutes, Carlos comes to, blinking heavily._ _

__“Good morning,” Cecil says. “How are you feeling?”_ _

__Carlos stares for a minute, and then sits up._ _

__“Much better than I should,” he says cautiously, looks down at his chest, where only a star-shaped scar remains from his close brush. “How long have I been down?”_ _

__“Only a couple days,” Cecil says, runs a hand through his own hair self-consciously. “I may have expedited the healing process.”_ _

__Carlos looks confused for a second, and then nods in understanding._ _

__“Thank you,” he says. “I suppose I would have died.”_ _

__“Undoubtedly,” Cecil says with a bit of a shudder. “Did… how was your sleep?”_ _

__“Deep. I barely remember getting shot,” Carlos says, and sits up. Cecil nods, still smiling, if only to himself._ _


	8. Dana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos gets a lab assistant, who has returned to Night Vale after a long absence.

Carlos had advertised in the local newspaper for a lab assistant not too long after his arrival in Night Vale, but after many months, he had given up on the prospect of someone filling the position. People are as suspicious of science as they are of him, and so even the remotely qualified have remained silent.

The black woman who knocks on his door is alone and encumbered by a large suitcase. Despite his own colouring, Carlos immediately takes her for a menial, perhaps with a message, though Cecil is the only one who sends him messages and he keeps no servants.

"Doctor St. Mark?" she says quietly, and holds up a yellowed newspaper. Her tone is light and pleasant, but entirely serious. Despite her youth, Carlos can appreciate that this woman has seen many things. "My name is Dana Sinclair. You need an assistant for your studies."

"Uh, yes," Carlos says, and opens the door a little wider. "It's improper to speak over the door like this, Miss Sinclair. Do come in. I'll make some tea. Will I take your bag? It looks heavy."

"No, it has several delicates in it," Dana says. "But thank you for the offer."

She sits down in the living room quietly, taking her bonnet and placing it on her lap. Her hair is pinned back, but clearly is not suited to the austere style that she has chosen, perhaps to look professional? Carlos sets out to make tea. When he returns with the tea tray and a small plate of biscuits, Dana begins to speak.

"In terms of education, I am not the most qualified candidate you have interviewed, Doctor, as I have been barred from attending more reputable institutions here and elsewhere. I am fairly experienced in several fields from my travels abroad and my informal studies at several schools, which are cited in my resume, here."

She sets a sheaf of paper on the small table, and continues.

"There are several professors I have collaborated with on studies who will vouch for my specializations in metallurgy, medicine and geology. Among them is Doctor Cecil Palmer, who I believe you know."

"You know Cecil?" Carlos asks, "Are you native to these parts?"

"I was born in Night Vale," Dana confirms. "If you may, could you tell me the date? Time and space do not always correlate for me. I am under the impression that it is 1891, a week after you advertised in this paper."

"It is eight months since then, Miss Sinclair. Time and space are different for you?"

"No, they are very much the same. I just experience them differently," Dana says, and her forehead crinkles in concern. "I am very late. I hope I am not too late."

"Too late for what?" Carlos asks cluelessly, as Dana begins to rummage through her bag. She pulls out a small and ornate compass, which bears arcane markings and dials which waver as though magnetized. "What is that?"

"This is an instrument of my own invention. It is meant to measure anomalies," Dana says, and frowns at the compass's face. "I expect you will need one as well, given the nature of your studies here."

"That would be very useful, yes," Carlos says, and realizes that he is just about to finish his tea. He sets it down, a little confused. "I'm sorry, what anomalies does it measure?"

"The kind that Cecil would be better at identifying," Dana says. "We should go."

Carlos has many more questions for this stranger, but swallows them and follows her out on the street. She is speaking, and he is certain that it is not entirely for his benefit.

"When I left the town, Cecil's mother had just passed and the anomalous activity in this town was still relatively low key.  I expected an uptick, but nothing of this magnitude," she says briskly. Her bonnet is forgotten, and her hair is shaking out of her hairties and pins. "This is the sort of activity I see in places without a protector. Ah, here we are."

Carlos, who had been struggling to keep up with Dana's quick walk, realizes with a start that they are indeed at Cecil's mansion, despite the fact that the journey usually takes about half an hour. Before he can ask how, Dana is knocking at the door.

"It will probably take him a while to answer, with that leg and at this time of night," she says with a frustrated sigh. "I despise waiting. Interval time is my least favourite."

It does take about five minutes for Cecil to open the door. His smile from seeing Carlos fades, and he blanches when he registers Dana, and then throws his arms around her.

"Dana!" he says, voice muffled by Dana's shoulder. "I thought you were dead. It's been so long."

"Interval time," Dana sniffs, but hugs him back. "We mustn't tarry, Cecil. There's several matters of varying urgency that must be addressed. You have met Doctor St. Mark?"

"Oh yes of course, Carlos is a dear friend," Cecil says, beaming at Carlos. "Oh, this is wonderful. I had hoped, of course, but you never wrote."

"I did! Though of course that might have been later than now," Dana says, and they all come in. "I will dispense with teatime and formalities. Have you been healthy?"

"Well, I've felt..." Cecil starts, and wilts under Dana's gaze. "It is quite bad, isn't it?"

"I will have to stay here," Dana says. "And I will have to play the healer. Lord. How stifling."

"Will someone please offer me more of a token explanation?" Carlos finally asks. Cecil and Dana give him a twin look of confusion, as though they had forgotten he was there. "I am lost."

"Dana is one of the most brilliant people I know," Cecil says. "A doctor, an inventor, and totally in tune with the energies that sometimes manifest on this plane."

"Sometimes," Dana scoffs. Cecil glances aside at her, and continues.

"When she is here, that means the world is about to get a lot more complicated," he says. Dana pulls a syringe from her bag. "She... um, Dana, what is that?"

"It is a mild psychedelic," Dana says. "And a dream enhancer. But most importantly, it finds toxic memories and it cleans them of their poison. You will project them, we will share them, and you will be far more healthy that way."

"When you say we will share them, you mean just you and I, correct?" Cecil asks hesitantly, his eyes flickering to Carlos.

"We three will share them," Dana says firmly. Cecil bites his lip.

"Cecil, what little I do not know about you will not lower you in my estimation," Carlos promises. He isn't entirely sure what his role is in this operation of sorts, but if it is to help Cecil, then what he must do is obvious.

They sit in the library, and Dana injects Cecil with the contents of the syringe. Cecil's eyes glaze over, and then he begins to speak, unclear images fluttering all around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the long hiatus! My computer cord decided to break and it's going to be until the week of the sixth that I get a replacement!


	9. Memories

Sharing memories is odd, confusing. Carlos can see present-day Cecil, sitting still in the library, eyes frighteningly distant and hands trembling on the table's surface. But at the same time, though Carlos knows he is in a library, he can see another room, soaked with morning light and smelling faintly of vanilla. And he can see Cecil, as a child, sitting at a table and battering his feet on its underside. The two rooms, the two Cecils, conflate into one, like two photograph negatives spliced together.

Carlos' first instinct is to reach for Cecil's hand, for he's noticed the other man has started practically quaking. Dana stops him with her vice like grip.

"He is in a trance, but it is not very strong," she says, her serious gaze piercing Carlos. "Contact will break him from it, and there will be consequences if that happens, Carlos. And, if the pattern continues, those consequences will be suffered mostly by Cecil."

Carlos glances over to Cecil. Dana's grip tightens.

"No matter what you see, Carlos, you _must not touch him_ ," she says. "He is volatile in this state."

Carlos hesitates for another second, but then nods. Dana seems satisfied, and they both turn their attention to Cecil, both the Cecils.

Cecil when he was a child is creating flowers, which sprout from the polished wood tabletop. He is absolutely concentrated on this pastime, brow furrowed with almost comic seriousness. The white flowers grow more and more plenteous, until the blooms cover the table like a lace tablecloth. And then the door behind him opens, and a woman, tall and foreboding, snaps Cecil's name.

Cecil's back straightens, and he looks up at the woman guiltily.

"I'm sorry Mama," he says quietly.

"What a frivolous occupation," she says, and lays a hand on the tabletop. The flowers brown and wilt immediately. "What lives must die."

"Yes Mama," Cecil whispers, watching his hard work shrivel. He looks so alone. When Carlos refocuses his eyes to concentrate on present Cecil, he sees the same sense of isolation in those eyes.

"Mrs Palmer showed what little love she had very strangely," Dana says.

"This is wrong," Carlos says. "We shouldn't be seeing this."

"It is for his health. There must be witnesses," Dana says. "Or else he will not progress. It's already working."

Indeed, a blue vapor like smoke, but thicker somehow, is leaking from Cecil's mouth. The memory weakens with its ebb, replaced by another one, Cecil, ungainly and gawky with the onset of adolescence, in a dark room weeping, clutching his head. Voices loud and unremitting assault him, and his skin prickles lavender with a nature barely obscured. Teeth like a shark's dig into his vulnerable lower lip, drawing blood. Carlos cannot see in the current lighting if it is red or black.

Cecil cries for hours. Nobody comes to comfort him.

It is nearly unbearable, but the blue smoke and Cecil's shoulders relaxing puts Carlos a bit more at ease.

There are many more memories of isolation and humiliation and persecution that follow, enough for many more lifetimes than one. Carlos looks at present Cecil. Impassive eyes nonetheless shed tears. 

And then there is a smell of firewood and burning meat. Cecil, present day Cecil, begins to moan, a low sound that just draws on, full of hurt, and his lips move thickly.

"Please," he says, blinking. "Dana. No."

"I'm sorry Cecil," Dana says. Her eyes are shining with tears. "I wouldn't do this if it weren't totally necessary."

Cecil starts moaning again, and Cecil in the past, still quite young, but a man now, begins to scream.

He is collapsed on the street and clutching his leg, which is... _splintered_ at the knee. The smell of burning meat is heady, stifling, smoke stings at Cecil's eyes, well, the eye which is not swollen shut. He is surrounded by a silent crowd, in a night scene that is illuminated by firelight. The _pain_ in his eyes, multiplied in present Cecil's gaze.

"Cecil!" Dana cries. Carlos looks over at Dana, startled, but it isn't her cry that he heard. He realizes Dana, a younger Dana, is a part of this memory, as she runs over to past Cecil, hair wild and skirts flying.

"His menial has come to collect him," someone in the crowd, breaking their collective silence.

"I am NOT his servant!" Dana screams, kneeling by a sobbing Cecil.

"You are now! His witch of a mother is burning. All she was good for was a bit of torchlight," someone chuckles. Carlos can feel bile in his throat, but he is compelled to watch what transpired here. Present Cecil is still moaning.

Dana's hands are shaking, but she manages to sling Cecil over her shoulder, slight frame buckling only slightly under his weight.

"You are all fools," she says. "You have killed the woman who was keeping your town together, and this is to be her successor! _How will you save yourselves?_ "

"Uppity whore," someone says, but the crowd is now uneasy, not at all unified. They part to let Dana through. The memory is corroding as she walks. Present Cecil is choking on tears and his nails dig into the tabletop. Smoke flows from eyes and mouth, though, and he slumps in his chair, inchoate memories swirling and disappearing like painter's water down a drain.

"Is he... Can I...?" Carlos says in the ensuing silence. Dana is wiping her eyes on a lace handkerchief, but nods. Carlos reaches over and curls his hand over Cecil's twitching fingers. His skin is clammy to the touch, and flickering lavender.

"He said he hurt his leg in a duel," Carlos mutters, tracing a circle on the back of Cecil's hand. Dana scoffs.

"Cecil's a pacifist," she points out. "He would never."

"I see that now," Carlos says. "But I don't understand why."

Dana has no explanation for this. She is reaching into her bag, and pulls out a couple of candles and a piece of chalk. Lighting the white candles, she draws an arcane diagram on the tabletop and whispers something to Cecil, who stirs and lifts his head. Carlos is still holding his hand. Cecil stares at the contact, eyes wide.

"How are you feeling, Cecil?" Dana asks.

"I feel better," Cecil says. His voice is hoarse. "But weak. Spiritually."

"That's to be expected. You will need bed rest," Dana says. Cecil snorts. " _Cecil_. Doctor's orders."

"Ugh," Cecil says, and grasps his cane. He stands, a little unsteadily. His eyelids are already drooping. "White candles. How did you know?"

"Your mother always lit one before she went to bed. She wouldn't blink unless she had one lit," Dana says. "Now to bed."

Carlos gets up to help Cecil, who is looking fairly unsteady on his feet. In the bedroom, lit only by a white candle Carlos took with him, Cecil pauses.

"There is a great deal I haven't told you. Just because you saw it, doesn't mean I told you."

"Do you mean that I must carry on as though I haven't seen those things? The way these people have treated you?" Carlos says, fist clenching in his pocket.

"I would prefer it?" Cecil says, uncertain smile quirking his lips. "I have no desire to speak of it. Any of it. Maybe one day."

"I can't..."

" _Carlos!_ " Cecil says. His cry is hoarse, but the emotion is no less potent. "I'm tired, and I am dreading tonight's dreams. Just let me be."

He takes off his jacket and waistcoat, halfway sitting in his bed. Carlos stands there, unsure of what to do for a split second. But then he sees that glimmer in Cecil's eyes, echoed through so many years of agony and loneliness. And then Carlos knows exactly what to do. He leans over, kisses Cecil, who tastes of vanilla and inexplicable deja vu.


	10. Anomaly

Dana hates the Palmer House. It is very difficult to hate a house, even one that has a troubled history, but the Palmer House is in a class of its own. Built by one of Cecil's particularly deranged forebears, it is a place of geometric oddities and angles that induce vertigo on the staircases and in the twisting hallways. Dana feels as though she is being constantly watched, either by the portraits of Cecil's cursed family or perhaps by the ghost of Mrs Palmer herself.

The only lady in the house, Dana can nonetheless hear the swishing of taffeta skirts in other rooms, slippered footsteps far too light for her booted feet. It is terrifying to think of Cecil living here alone; she has only been here an evening, but she is already fit to burst.

Instead, she keeps busy, lights candles in Cecil's study and pulls out her inventions to tinker with. The center of demonic activity is very close. Perversely, Dana hopes that it is Palmer House itself, so she can finally give Cecil an excuse to cleanse the estate with fire, but she knows he would never do that. There's too much of himself contained within these walls, and there is nowhere else in Night Vale that would take him.

Dials swing back and forth lazily, without any real meaning. There is too much psychic interference in this diseased house. Dana sighs in frustration, and draws a couple of protective circles around herself. Cecil and Carlos have left her, and they have been gone for a while. She doubts that she'll see them again before morning, and allows herself a small smile. She has seen the way they look at each other when they think the other can't see. It is an enduring match. Indeed, she has seen many timelines which involve this cast of characters, and many outcomes; there are few where Cecil and Carlos don't find each other.

She has seen too much to be subsumed by this sick house, which shudders with her presence.

"Mrs. Palmer, you do not scare me," she says, more for her gratification than that of the shadows that grow around her. "Not anymore."

It doesn't ease the probing coldness in the room, but it makes her feel a little better while she works. And now her devices seem to be in a better working order. She carefully pours water in her modified compass, murmurs an incantation. There are no schools for the science she does, so maybe it is a secret blessing that she was not accepted to the refutable institutes on account of her sex and colour. Advanced chemistry has been known to halt the prowess of the most promising alchemists. She has surely surpassed them all.

Then why is it that the source of the demonic activity evades her so easily? Normally this procedure is like removing shrapnel from a wound- messy, delicate, but generally the location of the intruding metal is self-evident. There are so many hurts, so many holes in the town that the source of injury could be anywhere. There may even be more than one. Dana hopes not.

Towns like Night Vale, which preside on stolen land and operate on inspired hypocrisy, do not survive long. The only reason Night Vale can still thrive to some extent is Cecil's unconditional love, undeserved and unappreciated. Were it Dana's decision, Night Vale would have sunk into the ground long ago, killing all of its residents in the process. She has done it before without even a twinge of guilt. The world has always been a better place after such a purge. Always.

The dial on her compass is suddenly still, wavering only slightly. Dana casts a few spells to see what it is pointing to, and her breath hitches in her throat.

There is something which incubates in Carlos St. Mark. Something which can draw negative energies and demons like bees to pollen. Something which cannot be excised.

\---

Carlos rubs his eyes as he wakes up in golden-dappled morning, and the sleep in his eyes comes away dark and violet. This is the third such time. It has never concerned him, and continues to be a source of a worrying lack of concern. Instead, he looks over to Cecil, who is just waking up. Despite Cecil's fears, their sleep went largely undisturbed by dreams of the awful things they experienced together the day before.

They stare at each other for a long time, almost warily. Cecil's hair is charmingly askew, and Carlos reaches a hand over to push a lock out of his face. Cecil's eyes widen.

"I thought you would be gone when I woke up," he admits. "Most people who kiss me only do so before they leave."

Carlos' heart twists at this.

"I want to stay," he says. "You deserve that much."

Cecil manages a smile, and leans into Carlos, body warm and amazingly relaxed. They are both fully clothed, but this touch and this proximity feels more intimate than anything carnal. There's an unspoken promise that fills the space around them, one of support and love, and it is totally alien to Carlos. But it feels so right.

They are interrupted from their collective reverie by Dana, who bursts into the room. She looks like she hasn't slept a wink, and the panic in her eyes is uncharacteristic of her.

"Cecil, I have found the nexus," she says. "Or, one of them. I daresay you won't like it. Neither of you."

"Why wouldn't I like it? This is wonderful news," Cecil says, brow furrowing.

"It's not situated in a place. It's in a person," Dana says unhappily, turns to Carlos. "You are housing an anomaly, Doctor. It will either kill you or this town. Most likely both."

There's a long silence, and then Cecil propels himself from the bed, grabbing his cane. He is standing in front of Dana in short order, _livid_.

"You are mistaken," he snaps. Dana does not quail under his gaze, though it is terrifying.

"I am not. I can detect trace amounts of anomaly with my devices. I can smell it even now," she says bluntly, and turns to Carlos. "You have been in constant contact with the remnants of something foul, Doctor. Do you know what I'm referring to?"

"The powder," Carlos says, in spite of himself. He is strangely detached from the realization, though he supposes it must be horrifying. "I must have consumed it somehow."

"What did the powder used to be. What was its name?" Dana says.

"I don't remember," Carlos says. "How strange."

"Bellerion," Cecil mutters. "That is what it called itself."

The odd name stirs something within Carlos, and he almost says something, but at that moment a great howling shakes the house's foundations. The morning sun outside is overtaken by torchlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right! We're in the home stretch now! I have two more chapters planned and it's just a matter of when I can get to a computer to type them up!


	11. Transformation

**1994**

The mirrors are all covered. This is nothing new. Cecil can barely remember a time when they weren't.

(Well he can, but)

It has been three weeks since his mother disappeared, two weeks since Old Woman Josie took him in. He hasn't gone back to school yet; the idea makes his stomach turn flipflops and hurts his head. He hasn't gone to the radio station either, though he knows that Leonard is counting on him. It's just too much effort.

He hasn't cut off his hair, but he hasn't accepted Old Woman Josie's offer to braid it either. That was the one thing his mother always remembered to do.

In the face of Cecil's loss, it's just easier to stay in bed and dream. He dreams of odd times, where bigotry and prejudice were the norm instead of the crimes punishable by death, as they are in civilized times. He dreams of another Cecil, no, the same Cecil, only this one's white and blond and carries a cane. It's weird recognizing yourself when you're not yourself.

It's the same dream every time.

**1891**

"Uncover all the mirrors," Cecil says to Dana.

"You know what that will do," Dana says, though she does not seem opposed.

"It is not enough," Cecil says, "Get the ones on the first floor. You have more of a chance of getting out if you do."

"Between wait awaits me outside and what could happen here, I think I will stay in the house," Dana says, cocking her head to the mob outside. But she goes to start with the mirrors.

"I'm sorry, I should have realized sooner about the damn powder," Carlos says quietly. His body is suddenly feeling very drained, as though the prognosis was enough to make him ill. In hindsight, this drain on his stamina had been building up a long time. "I've put you in danger, haven't I?"

"No. I am doing that myself," Cecil says, and sits beside Carlos. "I've never been one for curses, or vengeance. I am a pacifist. But I have failed in protecting you from this town's poison. I must curse the whole of Night Vale in order to remove the piece of it lodged in you."

"Oh," Carlos says. "And how does uncovering the mirrors do that?"

"I am currently curtained off from all I can be, splintered across many possibilities and planes. Dana used to be that way, but she found a way to forge herself into one being. She is truly brilliant," Cecil smiles briefly. "You may have seen part of my true form. It is monstrous."

"I didn't think so," Carlos says. "I thought it was beautiful."

Cecil looks like he might cry.

"I will miss you."

"What do you mean?" Carlos asks. "You aren't going to be alone when you do this. I'll stay with you."

"Carlos, I _can't_ ," Cecil says. "I'm going to fracture myself and the town with me. I am destined to recur with Night Vale in whatever time and plane it occurs."

There's a long silence and in it, Cecil begins to transform. Carlos is changing too; he's becoming more human. Essentially human.

"I have some power, you always said that. I'll find some way to come back to you," Carlos promises, taking Cecil's hand (now lavender and blinking eyes) and kissing it. The gesture stills Cecil. Outside the mob is beginning to scream.

"Nobody will die today," Cecil says. "But we will be cut in half so many times they may not even be themselves anymore. We will forget so much. Carlos, you will stay whole. You will stay whole."

"Yes, I see," Carlos says, and leans forward to kiss Cecil. "I'll find you. I hope you don't forget that."

"I hope so too," Cecil says sadly. "I hope I never forget that I love you."

The cacophonous sound of every mirror in the house breaking ends the dream and the era.

**1994**

It's a weird dream to have, especially over and over. Cecil still wakes up with sleepshed tears on his cheeks, even though he never forgets the dream and it should fade in emotional intensity.

He asks Old Woman Josie about the dream, but she can only offer the vaguest interpretations. Sometimes, when she thinks Cecil isn't looking, she looks sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second-last chapter! I swear this has a happy ending. Present-day Cecil is inspired by palaceofposey's interpretation.


	12. First Meetings

When they first meet for the tenth time, Cecil is a radio host for Night Vale's local station. Carlos is a scientist; this barely ever changes. This time, he hears Cecil before he sees him, blithely reminding people about the dangers of crocodiles (Can they eat your children? Yes) and warning them from knowing about the hierarchy of angels. Carlos smiles, because last time they'd met, Cecil had expressed a fervent interest in the antiquated technology (It had been 2413, and the Third Blood Space War was in its twentieth year).

He doesn't expect Cecil to remember him, or their love. He never has in their several meetings.

"...He grinned, and I fell in love instantly. Government agents from a vague yet menacing government agency were in the back watching. I fear for Carlos. I fear for Night Vale. I fear for anyone caught between what they know and what they don't yet know that they don't know."

"That's kind of weird, isn't it," one of his team of scientists says, furrowing her brow at the radio. "Do you even know that guy?"

"...Yes," Carlos says. "I do."

He goes down to the station with a couple of tools to measure anomaly. He and Dana both defy time and place now, and they've met several times over the course of events to perfect their inventions. The radio station is absolutely brimming with anomalous activity, though most of it seems centred around Cecil, who looks at him with an open adoration that brings Carlos right back to 1891.

"These readings are highly irregular. I have to go," Carlos says, raking a hand through his hair awkwardly. He stops when Cecil makes an odd noise like choking. "To be safe, you should probably evacuate the building."

He leaves before Cecil can reply, suddenly overtaken by shyness. Cecil is different here, far happier and more outgoing than any of his previous or future lives. He loves the town, he loves Carlos, and loves cat videos in equal measure. It's the outlook of a man who has been born squarely in the correct era. Carlos touches the old Kodak photographs which he keeps in the pockets of his labcoat.

"Why are you avoiding him?" Dana asks. She has come to this Night Vale, expressing surprise at its continued existence and bringing with her the hard liquor that only persons detached from time and space can truly appreciate. Carlos welcomes her to his small suburban house with relief.

"Avoiding...? I'm not avoiding..."

"Yes you are," Dana says. "The interval time that has accumulated is absolutely shocking. You haven't even kissed. What are you waiting for?"

"That night with the mirrors, he shattered irreperably. I feel like I've only met shadows of him," Carlos says, feeling unbearably guilty even as he says it. "I don't know if he's the same person."

"You don't even know that of yourself."

"The truth is, I know exactly what part of him this one is," Carlos says. "It intimidates me that his love has stayed intact in one being. I can't possibly reciprocate."

"If you don't, it will break his heart."

Dana takes a long drink from her bottle.

"You two broke this town into so many realities that it almost has a continuity," she continues, "for the sake of love. Night Vale is dangerous. One of you could die tomorrow without this love being expressed. That would be the ultimate waste of interval time."

Carlos knows she's right, and vows to ask Cecil out.

The Dog Park opens and he almost dies before he does, but soon enough they go out on first, second, and countless dates. It's better than it ever could have been, in any past or future.

Carlos shows him the Kodaks later, when they've found a home for just the two of them. He's never shown the Kodaks to any one Cecil before, not even the first one, and the night before he does, he is kept awake by the possibility of Cecil refusing to understand.

"These photos are very old," Cecil says quietly, looking at the several photos of a spectral Cecil from long ago, toting a rare smile. "Are you sure they're of me?"

"Positive," Carlos says. "You don't look all that surprised."

"I used to have dreams of another Night Vale. A strange one," Cecil explains. "I've mostly forgotten them. They weren't good dreams. But I remember how I looked. Huh, usually only those at Soul Strength Seven can access memories of past or concurrent lives. I should get myself tested again."

Carlos laughs a little, finds his hands aren't shaking as much. His life up until now had been finding the right time and place for Cecil. Now a new part of his life can start.

And that night, as is requisite for all couples entering into a certain anniversary, Carlos and Cecil have a joint dream of a garden they can both remember from some time long ago. Apple blossoms and blue flowers all bloom together out of season, and the scent is intoxicating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for bearing with me! I'm thinking of writing a couple bonus chapters of Carlos interacting with other Cecils, but for now this story is finished. I couldn't have done it without your input and encouragement!
> 
> If you wanna talk Night Vale or whatever, my blog is bouzingo.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Oxtrezart's drawings are the cutest shit, but this is what inspired me in particular:
> 
> http://oxytrezart.tumblr.com/post/64987249812/so-after-receiving-this-prompt-for-a-mini-ficlet
> 
> As far as I'm concerned, I'll be updating this story forever.


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